


Tension

by mssdare



Series: Sleeping Aid [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angry Kylo Ren, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Dom/sub Undertones, Fight Sex, Hand Jobs, Hux is Not Nice, Hux needs to relax, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shame, Shirtless Kylo, kylo ren can be gentle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 19:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7401064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssdare/pseuds/mssdare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hux can't sleep. Staying in his quarters is pointless, even if it’s almost the beginning of the second shift now. He might as well go and train for a while, burn off excess energy and calm down before the speech and the firing of the Starkiller missiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tension

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, new fandom! I'm anxious to post this! I hope you'll like it * bites nails *  
> This is just a bit of porn.
> 
> Many thanks to xantissa for encouragement and awesome insights (and some of the sentences, too ;) and to my best-ever beta Sillygoose who follows me no matter where I go! You are the best, bb!

TENSION

 

Hux knows he’s well prepared. He’s been working on this speech for two standard galaxy weeks now. It’s as rehearsed as can be. Nothing more can be done, surely.

Unless… One more run-through won’t hurt.

He gets off the cot he’s been trying to fall asleep on and paces around the limited space of his quarters, the pad of his finger shifting back and forth over the edge of his datapad. He wishes now he’d caved and gotten quarters more suitable for a general, just like Supreme Leader Snoke had suggested, instead of opting for this basic, regulation-size, spartan cabin. He’d have space for walking around, then. But he’s never been a man of luxury, and he isn’t going to start indulging now. If he sets an example, people will follow, and practicality is so much more important than décor. Or, more to the point, practicality and being proper _is_ the only décor Hux allows.

“Today is the end of the Republic. The end of a regime that acquiesces to disorder….” He repeats the lines in his mind again and again. Perhaps he should be less dramatic? Maybe he should say “the last day of the regime” instead of “the end”? But, no. “The end” is finite. More poignant.

He repeats the words again, feeling them shape his mouth, his expression. Nothing sounds right at this point; nothing feels right. He’s said the speech so many times over that the words have lost their meaning. They’re just weird sounds at this point, echoing in his head.

He turns around and clenches his fists, forcing himself to calm down, to not let himself slip. What he’d really like is to punch a wall, feel the bones cracking, skin splitting, warm blood hitting the surface so he’d feel pain and know he’s still alive, that he’s a breathing human and not just a symbol of the First Order, or a droid with only one purpose.

He refuses to acknowledge the real cause of his distress. He knows his speech will go fine. He knows how to phrase his lines, when to strengthen his voice, when to put stress on certain words so people will follow his command and believe what he believes in. He's good at it.

It's what comes after the speech that he's concerned about.

_If so many souls vanish all at once will they leave an imprint in the Galaxy?_ he wonders. Will their despair be something tangible, something he may be able to feel even, or more like a physical void? The blast and the death that will follow will be immediate. There will be no pain for the people, no burning skin, no injuries or lasting horror—just worlds evaporating in the blink of an eye. Hux has made sure the weapon works this way: efficient, clean and aseptic.

This is war. There is no doubt about it. But this is also The First Order overcoming chaos and working towards a better future, one with structure and fairness and every bit of the Galaxy in its rightful place. Hux has seen his share of war, of cruelty, the aftermath of raids and battles. He's seen injuries no amount of time in a bacta tank could heal, he's heard cries of pain beyond what’s natural, and he’s felt the stench of burning bodies. There are nights when he wakes up in the darkness, patting his legs and arms to check if they’re still there, and hearing the screams of terror. This is what he stands against. This is why he’s built his weapon—to demonstrate power and structure. _To end_ this war.

He groans and puts on his jacket, buttoning it all the way up, feeling the change in the fabric, the subtle shift as it takes its proper shape. Staying in his quarters is pointless, even if it’s almost the beginning of the second shift now. He might as well go and train for a while, burn off excess energy and calm down before the speech and the firing of the Starkiller missiles. He needs to appear passionate but cool and collected at the same time, and in order to do so he has to clear his head.

He knows that sleep is just an idle wish at the moment. There is a shivery tension under his skin, a restlessness that is impossible to chase away with the sheer force of his will. He needs _something_ , something he hopes to get from physical exercise. The starship at this time of the shift is quiet, most of the crew having gone to rest or regroup before the next day’s events. Hux can walk down the corridors uninterrupted, shivering a bit underneath the layers of his clothing and wishing he could have slept after all. He reaches the training hall, sure that it will be as empty and silent as the rest of the ship, but instead it’s occupied by someone; he can hear equipment being moved around and sharp grunts of exertion. He’s about to turn around because there’s no way in hell he’s going to train in front of anyone, but then he thinks better of it. He needs to relax or else he’s going to throw up, and so whoever is in the hall, they’ll need to wrap up their training and leave the place to their general.

He punches the keypad and the door slides open in front of him to reveal a dimly lit space, training accessories scattered all over the floor and none other than Kylo bloody Ren in the middle of the chaos.

So much for Hux’s training, then.

He closes his eyes for a second and evens up his breathing, collecting himself. He’s angry—at Ren for taking up this space, at his lack of authority over Snoke’s attack dog, and at himself for not being able to just man up and exercise next to someone else.

“I see you’re quite finished in here, Ren,” he says, attempting intimidation even though he knows it won’t work on this particular opponent.

Ren looks up from a battered sparing droid he’s apparently trying to put together. He’s unmasked—a rare occurrence—and his black, too-long hair is in disarray, curling around his cheeks. His eyes are dark and glistening in the light, making him look like a demon from the books Hux used to steal from his mother’s bedroom as a child. Hux has seen Ren without his mask on at only several occasions, and it never ceases to amaze him that there’s such a young and oddly handsome face hidden behind the steel.

“What?” Ren asks, distracted, as if he’s not realized it is Hux speaking to him.

“Have you finished your…?” Hux looks around yet again, taking in the dismembered sparing droid and the gouges Ren’s idiotic lightsaber left on the dura-steel walls of the gym. “Your attempts at destroying this place?’ He can’t help the fact that his tone is already reaching an irritated pitch. It’s almost like an automatic reaction when he’s close to Ren. “I’d like to train. Alone.” After a moment of Ren silently staring at him with those strangely guileless, expressive eyes of his, Hux ads, “If you don’t mind.”

Ren frowns, mulling this over and stands up, leaving the pieces of the droid on the floor. He’s in a pair of tight black leather pants and a sleeveless undershirt, which displays how toned and broad he is, and Hux can’t help but stare just a little. He swallows when Ren starts walking towards him, wondering how someone as awkward and huge can be so elegant and graceful at the same time, like a giant predatory cat.

And Hux is not backing up. He _is not_. He stands his ground as Ren approaches, or rather prowls, until he’s standing so close Hux can smell his sweat and see drops of it glistening on Ren’s arms. It should be repellent, really, but instead Hux feels very much entranced. He licks his lips before he straightens himself to his full height, drawing his power around himself like a cloak, and he looks Ren in the eye, daring him to step one inch closer. 

“Care to spar, General?” Ren asks almost playfully, but there’s a hint of threat, that ever present tone of mockery behind the question, too. “Or is physical violence beneath you?”

He knows he’s no match for Ren in hand-to-hand combat, never mind fencing. However, he’s never been a man to pass up a challenge. Besides, a bit of actual fighting may be exactly what he needs to unwind.

“Fine,” he says, reaching to undo the buttons of his uniform. “But no magic tricks.” He waves to Ren to indicate the Force.

Ren has the audacity to smirk at that. “No tricks,” he says, raising both of his bare hands in the air, as if his power lies in a weapon he carries.

Hux strips off his jacket and then his shirt, staying in his tank top and refusing to feel self-conscious. He’s slim but well muscled. He might not value physical strength over intellect, but he does value endurance, good health and agility, and so he does his share of training whenever time allows. If he needs shoulder pads in his uniform to appear broader—well, that’s just a part of the show every officer puts on to intimidate their subordinates.

Ren reaches for wrapping tape and throws it at Hux, who barely manages to catch it in time. His eyes had strayed to the flex of Ren’s arm muscles for a bit too long.

Boxing, then.

Fine. Hux can go along with that. He wraps the tape around his palms, tightening it properly, and rips the loose ends with his teeth. He throws the tape back to Ren who does the same, and then stands in the middle of the training area, his stance broad but arms placed loosely at his sides.

“A little bit of a warm-up first?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Hux wants to refuse out of spite, or to make a point, but that would, in fact, be unprofessional. He scowls and starts some air punching and arm circles and then jumping squats, avoiding Ren’s gaze all the time.

When he’s done, he’s pleased his breathing is still even, and that his muscles feel nicely warm. Ren watches him with an unreadable expression on his face, standing still with shoulders slightly hunched. This, Hux realizes, is Ren’s natural stance. It’s just not visible underneath all the layers of clothing, the cape and the cowl he insists on wearing. Now, without the costume, Ren looks as if he’s anxious that he’s taking up too much space. Or maybe it’s just Hux projecting his own insecurities before the sparing. He throws a few more punches in the air and goes to stand in front of Ren.

For a while they mostly dance around each other; Hux is quick enough to dodge any punches Ren is throws his way, and Ren is blocking Hux effectively. But then Hux manages to land a good one on Ren’s side. It collides with Ren’s body with a dull thud, and when Ren whips around to hit Hux in return Hux pulls back, both thrilled that he’s managed to get to Ren and terrified at the expression of pure murder on Ren’s face. It’s as if a switch has been flipped. Ren’s no longer just an arrogant, mocking sparring partner. He’s suddenly an enemy, a vicious creature who’s out there for blood. The change, the suddenness of it, almost throws Hux’s focus, making him work to regain his physical and mental balance.

He dodges a few more punches, but he’s mostly retreating now, not even bothering to attempt a decent block. Ren has long arms, making it easy for him to reach Hux’s face. _Hells_ , Hux thinks, _this was such a bad idea_. It’s more than the power of Ren’s hits, the unnerving focus. It’s the feeling he projects, the aura of brutality. And if Hux shows up at the speech with a split lip and swollen eye it won’t be good. He’s more irritated than ever before, clenching his teeth and throwing small punches that should reach Ren, but more often than don’t even get near. He sees an opening in Ren’s guard and pushes his arm as far as he can, gasping when his fist collides hard with Ren’s lips.

If Ren was angry before, he is livid now. Hux would call for a time-out, only he realizes that this is exactly what he’s wanted. He wants to be overcome and beaten up, he wants to be in pain—this is why he’s here in the first place. He wants to ask Ren not to hold back anymore, Hux’s face be damned. He wants to be overwhelmed, held tight, thrown on the ground and fucked hard until he screams. And by some sort of Force-enabled coincidence he’s met the single person on this whole damned ship, in the whole Galaxy, who is uniquely suited to the task.

Ren stops suddenly, his chest heaving and his eyes wide, a bit of blood trickling from his lip where it has split from Hux’s punch.

“Is this what you want?” he asks softly. And what had Hux been thinking about just a moment ago? They say that Ren can pick up on thoughts, and Hux feels a hot flush creeping up his cheeks, stinging his neck, his ears. Mortification is freezing his blood, because—has Ren just seen the image Hux had in his head?

He wants to erase his thoughts and he charges at Ren with his full strength, but Ren just puts his hand in the air and Hux is immediately held aloft, tied up by the invisible ropes of Ren’s magic. The hold tightens and tightens, until Hux emits a small sound he’s not too proud of. His heart thumps double time, tripping over itself every few beats. It’s not fear, or not completely, and Hux is loath to admit that this—the position he’s in, the suspicion that Ren has heard his thoughts after all, Ren’s open defiance of Hux’s authority—excites him.

He’d tell Ren to go to hell, only he’s not quite sure he means it, and he knows that if he lies, Ren will _know._ And he needs for this tension in his body to go away. He needs to be able to breathe again.

The Force-hold Ren has on him pushes him against the wall; his head bumps lightly on the cold surface of the steel. He’s not being choked—it’s not like the other times Hux has seen Ren with Stormtroopers. The pressure is both weightless and heavy, quite indescribable, and Hux finds that he enjoys it. His pupils dilate so rapidly he can literally feel it, just as he can feel the way his heart rate is speeding up. He closes his eyes, because he doesn’t want Ren to see that perhaps this is what he’s been asking for, that he’s already lost to it. It’s just a split second, but, as much as Hux hates, _hates_ , being out of control, under Ren’s influence it’s… good. Relaxing and exhilarating. He feels something warm brush his lips and opens his eyes to see Ren close to him, so close that their faces almost touch.

“Is this what you want?” Ren asks again, and Hux swallows hard and answers, “Yes.” Because to hell with it all, he needs it, and if _Ren_ can give it to him, so be it.

The hold releases, and Hux slides to the ground, landing on his hands and knees in front of Ren. It stings, in body, in pride; he can’t tell, isn’t even sure there is a difference between the two at the moment. He’s not too experienced, he must admit. The very few times with other cadets at officer’s school are long in the past, and later there was never time, never opportunity, not to mention never a suitable partner, to follow through with anything sexual.

He reaches for Ren’s pants, his hands so steady that he congratulates himself silently, and opens the fly, button after button. His brain must have fried sometime during the fight or maybe while Ren was holding him with the Force, because Hux is focused only on the here and now: the feel of leather underneath his fingertips and the smell of Ren’s body, close and intimidating. It’s insanity, what Hux is doing, especially with someone as unpredictable and unstable as Ren.

Ren’s cock is heavy in Hux’s hand, quite impressively huge and hard, and, _oh hells,_ Hux yearns for it so much that he is already opening his mouth, already salivating for it, disgusted with himself but at the same time unable to deny he’s already so excited it’s painful.

He wants Ren to pound into his mouth, into his ass, to use him, choke him, come down his throat, on his face. He’s almost delirious with want, and when he feels Ren’s grip tightening in his hair he whimpers, choking on the urge to beg Ren to give it to him. He looks up at Ren’s young pale face and is surprised to find something like desire, perhaps an expression matching his own, and also something else—fear maybe, or hesitation. He’s past his reservations and wants to encourage Ren somehow, so he pulls on Ren’s hips, guiding him, showing him it’s all right to use him like this. He needs it. He needs to lose control for just a few more moments at least.

Ren seems to get it at last, takes his cock in hand and taps the tip of his dick on Hux’s lips. The smell of his skin hits Hux then, heavy and masculine, making his stomach clench in a mixture desire and anxiety as the reality of the situation hits him.

“Open,” Ren says.

And Hux does, eager and too far-gone to be disappointed in himself anymore. 

He’s never done this before, not on the giving side, but it feels natural and exhilarating—the slide of the velvety, hard shaft and the way the head of Ren’s cock hits the back of Hux’s throat, making him cough a bit and his eyes water. Hux closes them, allowing the tears spill down his cheeks and wanting to feel more. He grips Ren’s ass harder, bringing him closer yet, and tips his head back, as far as Ren’s hold on his hair allows, to make room for Ren’s dick thrusting into his mouth. He moans, feeling the spit trickle down his chin as he chokes again. Even this feels good, too.

Ren says something, his rhythm falters, his cock throbs in Hux’s mouth, and Hux thinks, _Please, no, not yet, not yet,_ because this can’t be over so soon. Yes, he wants Ren to come inside him, but he’s not ready yet. His own cock is hard, too, leaking inside his uniform pants, untouched.

Ren withdraws and untangles his hand from Hux’s hair, leaving Hux on his knees, and Hux urges himself not crawl at Ren’s feet, pleading for more.

“Hux,” Ren says.

Hux shakes his head. He doesn’t want to look. His cheeks are aflame. He _wants_. He wants so much it hurts. He’ll sob and plead if he looks up, and _no_ , he will not let Ren have it.

“Hux, look at me,” Ren demands again. There’s something in his voice—maybe it’s the Force thing, or maybe it’s Ren himself—and Hux obeys. He opens his eyes and looks up, trying to channel all his disdain into his gaze, but it's hard to do with the ghost sensation of Ren’s cock still stretching his throat, with spit still wet on his chin, and his lips stinging from the stretch of Ren’s thick shaft.

Above him Ren looks glorious. This is the first thing that comes into Hux’s mind. With his pupils blown so wide that his eyes are practically black, and his full lips parted, and color high on his cheeks, Ren is beautiful. Hux tries to snort with disgust. He won’t think of Ren as a mighty creature, even if he can’t deny it.

A traitorous tear falls down his cheek and Ren leans over to brush his thumb over Hux’s face. He flinches and tries to move back, resenting the touch.

“Shhh,” Ren says. “I know, Hux. I know how this feels.” He leans lower to stroke Hux’s face again. This time Hux doesn’t move; he stays frozen, allowing Ren to soothe him. “I know,” Ren says again, and Hux believes him.

_Yes_ , he thinks. Ren knows exactly how this feels—how it is to be wound up this tight, with all the responsibility. How it is to make decisions about ending others’ lives, ending whole worlds. Ren knows. Hux swallows and leans into the touch of Ren’s hand.

“Go on.” Ren’s hand travels to Hux’s hair again, grips hard and pulls.

Hux almost melts.

“Yes,” Ren says.

This time when Ren’s cock slides into Hux’s mouth, Hux is ready. He sucks and licks it and then relaxes in Ren’s grip, letting himself be fucked. Nothing matters, there’s no other sound, no tomorrow, no surroundings. There’s just him on the floor and Ren’s huge hand steadying him, Ren’s smell enveloping him, Ren’s heavy dick hitting the back of his throat. This time Hux doesn’t think it’s too soon or that he needs more. When Ren starts coming inside his mouth he swallows the seed, and if some of it spills onto his chin he doesn’t care, because Ren is there to wipe it for him.

Ren’s still breathing hard when he says, “Don’t move.”

He circles Hux. The sound of his heavy boots make Hux’s hair stand on end. When Ren stands behind him, he startles and tries to get up.

“Don’t. Move. Hux.”

There’s a brief flash of panic inside Hux’s mind. As much as he wants to be fucked, he’s not sure he’s ready for it, or if he’d ever be ready for it. He knows that Ren’s way more powerful than he is. He wouldn’t be able to fight Ren off. Perhaps he just needs to man up and endure it.

“No,” Ren says, kneeling behind Hux, his arm around Hux’s chest, holding him in a tight embrace. “I wouldn’t.”

He kisses Hux’s neck, where the sweat has gathered at the nape, soothing the skin there, sensitive from all the hair pulling. “I wouldn’t,” he says again, while his other hand snakes down to where Hux is still hard in his pants. He opens the buttons of Hux’s trousers and pulls them down, just a bit, to release Hux’s cock. His fingers feel cold over the heated flesh when they close tightly over Hux’s cock. The tape Ren still has wrapped over his palms adds roughness to the strokes.

If Hux wasn’t being held, he’d fall to his hands on the floor, but like this he can only gasp and give in to the feeling of Ren touching him. He caves and looks down, at Ren’s huge hand, at his long fingers wrapped around him, and he thinks of all the power Ren can wield.

“Stop thinking,” Ren says. It feels as if he’s said it inside of Hux’s head, as if there’s no external sound to it.

Hux doesn’t even try now. He yields. It’s like drifting in warm water.

“You’ll come on three.”

Hux wants to nod and promise that, yes, he’ll do it, he’ll be good, but Ren’s already counting.

And that’s it—Hux is done for, coming with a pathetic whine, his cock pulsing hard, spilling hot seed over Ren’s hand and onto the training room’s grey floor.

Ren holds him tight throughout his climax and after, for long enough that Hux slowly starts to come back to himself, begins to feel uncomfortable on the hard surface and with his pants down. What if someone had entered and seen him like this, debouched and on his knees, with lips swollen and face still covered with Ren’s come? Hot, piercing shame shoots through him, but he’s too exhausted to give in to that feeling. Behind him Ren still feels warm and strong, like a living shield, and Hux indulges in a brief daydream of having this forever—someone like Ren in his bed and by his side, reckless and unpredictable, strong and invincible.

The moment is quickly gone as if it never was, and Hux pulls away from Ren’s embrace, stands up, steps into his trousers, and combs his hair back with his fingers. He’s still shaky, but his breathing is even, and he’s got enough control over his facial features to school them into something resembling his normal, stony, professional expression.

When he turns around Ren’s still on his knees with arms hanging loosely at his sides, and Hux thinks this is not a bad sight at all, so he averts his face, refusing to watch Ren swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that sends a heated wave through Hux’s body.

“Right,” he says, his voice scratchy. He’ll need some tea before his speech. He wants to dismiss Ren, but Ren’s no subordinate of his. Perhaps he should thank Ren, but it doesn’t sit right with him, so he just nods, grabs his jacket, and leaves the training hall, glad that if anyone spots him—looking so disheveled—he’s got the ready excuse of dirty tape wrapped over his fists and sweat still cooling on his arms and chest.

He’s been training. He’s been fighting. He’s a soldier, one of the men here on the ship. He’s their general and there is a purpose to every single thing he does.

When he closes the door to his own room he feels as if he’s floating; there’s a lingering buzzing in his ears and spots of light at the periphery of his vision. But at the same time, he is relaxed. He is better.

He rips the wrapping tape from his hands and lies down on his cot just the way he is, filthy uniform pants and the smell of semen lingering on his skin. He’ll shower and dress into freshly pressed clothes in a few hours. He’ll be proper and collected and convincing. He’ll be invincible.

But for now his sole objective is sleep.

 


End file.
